Train Wreck
by ravenoak21
Summary: John, Sherlock, and Lestrade attend a criminal justice seminar. Someone in the audience get more then he bargained for. But then, he did throw the gauntlet.


**Train Wreck**

**John accompanies Sherlock and Lestrade to a crime and criminal justice seminar and someone in the audience gets more then he bargained for. But then, he did throw the gauntlet down. **

**I think this is what is called. One Shot? No more chapters.**

**As always, I do not own Sherlock and company. Lucky Doyle Estate and BBC's Sherlock.**

Lestrade sipped the cold beer, eyes closed, as he listened as the soft violin music floated through the flat. John was, for once stretched out on the sofa, letting the gentle run of the bow lull him. Sherlock was in one of his more reflective moods, willing to play and just enjoy the congenial company of Lestrade and John.

"You know, Sherlock, the seminar workshop for secondaries is coming up soon. Can I count on you as a speaker this year? They do seem to enjoy it and what you can show them is not only important, but also makes a big impression on them."

The Sherlock continued playing without interruption for a some moments.

"Very well, Greg. As you say, it is important to train young minds. Do you have the date set yet?"

"Next month sometime. I'll keep you posted."

John sat at one side of the lecture hall. Sherlock, Molly, Lestrade and several other professional in the criminal justice system clustered up on the stage. The seminar was being held for school students fifteen years and up. Kids had just started filtering in. Some taking seats immediately, others gathering in groups of two and more. John checked his watch. There was still several minutes before the nine am starting time so there was still time for the amphitheater to fill and it did. More young people flowed through the door. John found it encouraging that so many would find the workshop interesting enough to sign up for.

"_Lestrade should be pleased." _John thought.

It was nine on the dot when Lestrade stood and declared the workshop in progress. He introduced the people on stage and gave a synopsis of the next three hours. John found that he was enjoying it all. The people on stage made it, not only informative but interesting as well. A barrister and a solicitor talked about the courts and criminal law. Molly and a team of lab techs actually sat up a mini forensics exhibition and gave a demonstration on the use of science in solving crimes.

John didn't have to look around to know that the kids were paying rapt attention. No sound of bored, restless young bodies shifting in their seats, no whispering interrupted the flow. Only the scratch of writing utensils on paper as notes were taken could be heard in the seats fanning out in front of the stage. None of the speakers dumbed down to their audience and the kids seemed to be eating it up.

John knew that Lestrade and Sherlock had been teamed up. They would be the last speakers before the noon break. Lestrade would give a talk on detective work and Sherlock would give a hand's on demonstration of his special expertise in that area. It wasn't until Lestrade had finished his talk when a gauntlet was thrown. John sighed as it was snatched up, in spades. Until now Sherlock had interacted well with his colleagues and the young, inquisitive audience with an easy grace, answering their questions and even smiling once in awhile, but that was about to change.

Lestrade talked about how important the first impressions one got when first arriving on a crime scene were. How much care would be taken not to disturb anything in the area. How vital it was not to allow contamination of evidence collected while doing the all important preliminary investigations.

Once done, he stepped to one side and half turned to make eye contact with Sherlock, not that he needed the cue but it was a visual aid for the audience as well. It wasn't until Sherlock started to stand that things went a little "bit not good", in John's estimation.

A man in the audience stood up."Excuse me, Detective Inspector Lestrade. I mean no disrespect really, but according to his profile, Mr. Holmes is a Sociopath. There young people are very impressionable. Don't you think exposing them to a man with such emotional disabil..."

Lestrade's voice cut across his.

"And you are?" Greg Lestrade was not a happy man.

"I am Dr. Edmond Rice, Psychologist."

John grimaced and pinched the bridge of his nose. "_Damn the man! What was he doing here anyway?" _ He sighed. It had been going so well. His attention shifted to Sherlock and he shook his head regretfully. Sherlock had been enjoying himself but now his body language showed a marked difference. Sherlock's stance had stiffened. His eyes had narrowed and lost any warmth they had held earlier, becoming the stormy gray when the tall man was feeling extremely annoyed. Their focus was settling on Dr Rice. John could not find it in him to pity the man. He had, after all, thrown out the challenge. John was just very glad indeed that he was not going to be the subject of this particular study.

"I can assure you, Dr Rice, that Mr. Holmes is highly efficient in this area. He has proven himself to be a valuable asset. I am inclined to look on the merit and quality of his contributions. If we may get on with our demonstration, if you please." Lestrade's voice was stern. He knew as well as John that if Sherlock became incensed this session could end up being more then just a little unpleasant. But what he had said about Sherlock was nothing more then the simple truth.

Lestrade turn away from the irritating man wishing there was a way to get him out of here.

"You have the floor, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock gave Lestrade a slight bow of his head. "Thank you, Detective Inspector Lestrade." Then moved towards the edge of the stage giving the young faces seated around the hall his full attention, markedly ignoring Dr. Rice.

"We have been given five senses. I'm sure you know them, hearing, sight, touch, smell and taste. All of these, if trained and developed properly, can be your most important tools when examining a crime scene. Of these five tools, your eyes are the most important. The majority of the populace look, but they do not "see". The simplest things escape their attention.

As DI Lestrade pointed out, keeping the scene pristine is of great importance. But a dead body cannot tell you, in words, who killed it or why. But to those who train themselves to use their senses to the utmost, it can speak volumes. Do not be afraid to touch a body. It cannot hurt you. It is past caring. The very worst has been done to it. But your attention to detail can bring a murderer to light. This is what a detective is there for. This is what the work is about. This is what is important. Take notice of..."

"Surely, Mr. Holmes, you can't be capable of such focus." Rice's tone was condescending, even scoffing.

Three things happened all at once. John half rose from his chair as Lestrade did as well. Sherlock went very still. He glanced at John with a slight shake of his head. A hand rose palm outwards towards Lestrade to halt him. Full focus coming to bare on this man who had gone from merely annoying to absolutely infuriating. Sherlock's every move was now controlled, exact. But with a grace that spoke of power for those who knew the man well.

As Sherlock's icy gaze took in Dr. Rice, he also noticed the person setting next to him. "_Young, female. Head turned away from Rice (_Sherlock could not acquaint the word "Dr." with this man) _Chin resting on clenched fist. Brow deeply furrowed. But not only is she intent on not looking at Rice, her whole body is straining away from him. So. Because this day was set up for workshops, few parents accompanied their offspring. Here was an exception then. Said offspring is not happy about it. I must agree."_

On Sherlock's slight signal, John slipped back into his seat. But he found he could not relax. Lestrade paused at the up raised hand.

"It is fine, DI Lestrade. I'm sure this can be brought to a satisfactory conclusion."

Lestrade dropped onto his chair and rubbed his temples. Sherlock had no raised his voice, not even one decibel. But each word was measured. There was an undertone that Lestrade caught and it did not give him a warm fuzzy feeling. All he could think of was a train wreck about to happen and he couldn't think of one bloody way to stop it. John was having much the same thoughts.

Sherlock turned his attention to the hall.

"Usually I choose one of you to come down while I demonstrate certain techniques. But for this session..."

Sherlock looked pointedly at Rice and held out his hand in invitation.

"If you would, please."

Rice just sat, looking confused. The young woman sitting beside him finally rolled her eyes and whispered to him. His face broke into a wide smile and he eagerly made his way towards the stage. Sherlock's fingers steepeled and pressed against his lips, eyes taking in every nuance of Rice's approach.

Lestrade silently groaned. "_Train wreck indeed." _Unfortunately for the driver of this particular car, the engine really didn't care.

As Rice took the stage, Sherlock once again turned to his youthful audience.

"Five tools. Exercise them. Employ them. Watch, but more importantly, observe."

Then he turned back to Rice and was every inch business.

"You have business cards, Dr.?"

"Why, yes. Of course." Rice took out a card case and handed one over.

Sherlock watched every move carefully. Taking the card, he ran his fingertips lightly over it. He flipped it over, then flipped it back, then he held it up to the light. He moved to the edge of the stage.

"Knowledge is also a powerful tool. Know your environment." He held the card up. "Simple, yes. Small, easily lost, discarded, thrown away, overlooked. Never make that mistake. What can this tell us? A great deal, if you know what to look for. First, the card stock is of a very good quality. Secondly, the printing is actually embossed. Thirdly, like every good quality paper good, this carries a watermark. Every indication that Dr. Rice's practice was once successful. You do notice, I used the past tense. What makes me say that? He has a fair amount of cards in his case. One the face of it, this may seem trivial. He could have restocked it. I mentioned a watermark. This tells us the date and manufacturer. This particular mark became defunct two years ago when the manufacturer merged with another stationary firm. This tells me that people are not seeking him out."

Sherlock turned and held the card out, Rice snatched it out of his fingers with a glare. A slight smile played on Sherlock's lips. "_Deduction confirmed."_

"May I see your hands."

"My hands...why?"

Sherlock held out his own. "Please."

Rice frowned deeply but held them out. Sherlock took and examined them closely, paying attention to the backs, palms, fingertips, the condition of the fingernails. He pushed the cuff of the sleeves up and examined each wrist. When he was finished, Sherlock turned to speak to the hall.

"Even in this day and age of sedentary jobs, the hands can still tell us many things. Calluses still form. What kind of work produce them and where. People wear jewelry. For a little while, even if lost or removed, they will leave traces. Are the items clean or dirty and on which side. Until quite recently Dr. Rice wore a wedding band. He still has the mark of it on his left hand. He could have lost it, of course. But the flesh that finger is indented. What can this tell us? That the ring fit quite tightly. Not so tight that the band would have had to be cut off., but neither would it have easily slipped off without aid. So, the loss of the ring may be possible but not probable. He also bares the mark of a watch on his right wrist..."

There was a sharp intake of air, but before Rice could say a word, Sherlock cut across it.

"He is wearing a watch now. But it is not the same which caused the mark that one can see underneath. The watch he sported before was wider, heavier. The flesh of his wrist is quite pale and the band of his present watch does not completely obscure the evidence. Again, a watch may be lost. It can be broken. Perhaps it is no longer working or is being repaired. So, this piece of evidence can be said to be suggestive but inconclusive. Never guess. It is a fatal mistake in any kind of investigation. Know your facts and let them lead you."

Sherlock turned back to his subject. "Pay attention to the clothing. Mark the quality of the material. Study fashions and trends. Is a dress or suit new or out of style. If out of style how many months, even years. Are the threads frayed, matted, or pilled. Has the garment been well cared for, or not. Are the lines crisp or has it relaxed due to age and wear. These points can be very instructive."

As he spoke, Sherlock had been slowly circling, letting his eyes roam over the jacket. He leaned in and pulling out his pocket magnifying glass, examined a spot just behind the right shoulder.

"Miss Hooper, tweezers and an envelope, if you would."

Molly got the requested items and handed them to him.

Rice started to turn his head in that direction.

"Do hold still."

Sherlock carefully plucked something up from the jacket. As he did so, he watched the red blush creep up from under the man's collar infusing his neck. "_Thank you, Mr. Rice." _ Three times he did this. Twice the find went into the envelope. This he closed and handed it off the Molly. The third he held up to the light.

"Hair." He said in way of instruction. "Appears to be human. Quite blond. Miss. Hooper, would you be willing to run an analysis for us, right now?"

"Of course."

"The strand appears to be quite brittle. Can you tell us if this is indeed human and if it's been color treated. I don't know if the sample will hold up, but see if you can determine the natural color, if it is a dyed hair?"

"Right away, Mr. Holmes." She took his upheld sample carefully and started for the mini lab that had been set up earlier.

"Enough of this!"

"Really, Dr. I have barely gotten started."

"I will not be subjected to this humiliation by the likes..."

"_And here it comes." _The thought ran through Lestrade's head.

Sherlock's eyes flashed shards of glittering gray ice. His words cut through Rice's once again.

"You call yourself a psychologist. Even in this economy, or because of it, people are seeking or are being sent to professional help. As I pointed out earlier, your services are not being utilized. Why is that? Because you have lost credibility. People are staying away from you. Again, it begs the question, why. The answer is, you are not effective. You are extremely text book lacking in imagination. You have no bedside manner. You are mediocre but take no steps to work on improving and developing what ever skills you may have in your field. Instead you transfer your feelings of failure onto others and cover your own feelings of lack with condescension, belligerence and heavy handed sarcasm. Your wife has taken leave of you and in return you have done what you could to remove all material evidence of her from your person. Conclusion: you are unsympathetic and have no empathy with your patients or any one else. And you have the audacity to label others as Sociopath. I would strongly suggest, Dr...Heal. Thy. Self."

Rice's face had taken on the stain that had been creeping up all the while. His mouth worked but he suddenly spun, stormed off the stage and continued up the isle, pushing his way out of the hall. A stunned silence reigned until someone started to applaud and it quickly spread until the room was filled with it. A few sharp whistles were included. Lestrade watched Sherlock. He was half expecting the tall man to actually take a bow. Instead, the dark head turned, made eye contact and held it. Taking the cue, Lestrade stood and moved to the front of the stage while Sherlock took his seat.

Lestrade held up his hands for silence. After the hall fell quite he addressed the young people before him. "We thank you for your attention and appreciation. There will now be a question and answer period before we break for lunch."

Both Lestrade and Sherlock got their share of questions before the auditorium emptied. John made his way to the stage while the lab techs and Molly packed up. Sherlock and Lestrade was in conversation. Noticing John, both men greeted him.

"Do you want to stay for the afternoon session, John?" Sherlock thought this might be up the man's ally,

"What's it about?"

"The safety and use of holistic healing in modern medicine."

"Sounds a bit alright, yeah. You staying, Sherlock...Lestrade?"

"No." Lestrade answered first. "The criminal justice part is done so I won't stick around. What about some lunch, Sherlock?"

"No. Not hungry really. I'll go back to Baker Street. But you can stay if you wish, John."

John caught Greg's eye and gave a slight shake of his head.

"Look." Lestrade volunteered. "I'll got get some take out and bring it around.

"That sounds fine, Greg."

"If you wish."

The three left the hall. John hailed one taxi for Sherlock and himself. Greg caught another one.

"That really was amazing. I can see why Lestrade asks you to participate."

"The man is an idiot."

"Well, yes. He is. But you made good use of him. The kids ate it up. You had their full attention all the way through."

John watched the ghost of a smile flit across his flat mate's face. "I cannot say it was dull."

Once they got back to the flat, Sherlock went straight to his room. John found the daily paper and sat down to scan it. Hearing Sherlock's door open some minutes later, he glanced up taking in the tattered jeans, knitted cap, turtle neck under a windbreaker and the half fingered gloves. He watched as the tall man retrieved his violin.

"Don't wait supper. I don't know when I'll be back."

As Sherlock headed down the stairs, John heard the front door open and Lestrade's voice.

"Oh..sorr...damn it!...SHERLOCK!" The last sounded like it was more outside the door then in.

The front door slammed and there were footsteps coming up. "Oh bloody he...!"

"Inspector Lestrade!"

"Oh...sorry, Mrs. Hudson..yes...sorry."

Lestrade stalked into the flat.

"Damn that bloody man!" He dropped heavily onto the sofa. Two bags of take-out landing on the coffee table.

John looked up from the paper. "Sherlock or Rice?"

"Well, I suppose both. But mostly Rice. Why couldn't he have just kept his mouth shut."

"It was quite the train wreck."

"You saw that too, did you. For once I wouldn't have minded if Sherlock had fallen into a royal snit and walked out. Wouldn't have blamed him in the least."

John folded the paper away. "In a way, I wouldn't have either. But you know, I'm glad he stood his ground. As angry as he had to be he took it and gave it back in spades. In doing so he gave those kids a demonstration of detective work they will never forget."

Lestrade ruffled his hair roughly. "Your right of course. Just hate to see that happen."

John nodded. "Me too."

"Did you notice who started the applause, John?"

"Chestnut haired girl, wasn't it? She was sitting beside Rice?"

"Yes, indeed. Rice's daughter. Rice, Emile Roslyn. She was one of the first to sign up for entry courses for the Yard."

"Just how close did Sherlock's deductions come?"

"Pegged it pretty close. Wife left him not four days ago. Has already filed for divorce siteing mental and emotional cruelty. Said that at first things were really good. His practice was doing very well. Then about a year ago she noticed a falling off. He started browbeating and bullying his patients. Those with a descent amount of self-esteem left. We all know how the "word of mouth" thing works."

John looked surprised. "That was fast."

"The internet is a wonderful thing. Vital records and all. Smart phones aren't bad either."

Lestrade glanced towards the door, John caught it. "He's either down with the Irregulars or busking or both. And no, I don't know when he'll be back. He said not to wait supper."

"Ah well, then. We have lunch and it's still pretty hot. Shall we?"

John got up and rummaged around in the kitchen/lab and come up with some clean plates. "Did they send chopsticks?"

"Always do."

"We'll use them then. Probably safer anyway."

Meanwhile, down in the cement tunnels of London's underpinnings, an impromptu party was taking place. A feast of take-out and live music was a welcome change to the grinding poverty of homelessness. Young folk, and not so young folk ate their fill and either danced or played in a make shift band of what ever musical instrument was at hand. Other buskers had their guitars, flutes, penny whistles, and drums. In their midst a man played his violin elegantly. Swaying slightly as he tapped a toe in time with the dance of the bow over quivering strings.


End file.
